The Radio Boys on the Mexican Border eBook

“That’s right, Frank,” said Mr.
Temple. “Search it well. And, Bob,
did you notice the license number of the car?
We can telephone and have it intercepted.”

“No,” confessed Bob. “I was
too busy to get that.”

Frank interrupted the conversation with a shout of
delight. “Look at this,” he cried,
holding up a long strip of paper. “Return
trip ticket to Ransome, New Mexico. And a wallet
with a big bunch of bills in it. And here, what’s
this?” he added, holding up a thick, legal-looking
envelope. “Why, Mr. Hampton’s name
is written on it.”

“Let me have that, Frank,” said Mr. Temple,
extending his hand. Frank passed him the envelope.
Mr. Temple noted the seal had been broken, and opening
it he pulled out a thick document down which he ran
his glance hurriedly. Then his face became grave.

“Boys,” he said, “Mr. Hampton has
many things of value in his home, but this was the
most valuable of all.” Briefly he explained
the paper contained a list of names of “independents”
in the oil field, together with other information,
which would give the Octopus a very great advantage
in the business war between the Oil Trust and the
“independents” if the document fell into
its hands.

“This is pretty serious business, boys,”
Mr. Temple continued. “Bob, you were very
rash, but you did a good stroke of business that time.
Come,” he added, “we’ll go back to
the house, and call up the police. Maybe that
car can be stopped and its occupants arrested.”

As they turned through the woods, another thought
occurred to Mr. Temple, and he asked Frank what was
the name of the man to whom the railroad ticket had
been issued.

“Jose Morales,” read Frank. “This
is the portion for the return trip from New York.
Evidently the man came from—­why, Mr. Temple,
he came here from Ransome, New Mexico. That’s
the nearest station on the railroad to the Hampton’s
camp.”

Frank thwacked Bob gleefully on the back. “Say,
Bob,” he declared, “old Jack isn’t
having all the fun after all, is he?”

CHAPTER IV

SHOTS AT THE STATION

“Boys,” said Mr. Temple, when the Temple
home, a short distance from the Hampton place, was
reached, “come into the library with me.
I want to have a serious talk with you.”

Obediently, Bob and Frank filed into the room and
sat down in deep leather armchairs, while Mr. Temple
sat back in a swinging chair by his broad, flat-topped
desk. Selecting a cigar from the humidor at his
elbow, he lighted it and puffed thoughtfully several
moments before addressing the chums.

“First of all,” he said at the conclusion
of this period of silence, “I’ve decided
that we will not notify the police of this affair.”

“Why not, Dad?” demanded Bob in surprise.

“We want to keep this matter to ourselves until
we can see more clearly what it means,” explained
Mr. Temple. “We recovered what was stolen,
anyhow. But more than that, I begin to suspect
there is something more behind all this than mere
business rivalry between the independent oil operators
and the Trust.”